Mae Madden eBook

her influence, to the world of art. This morning
they were on their way to the Transfiguration to study
the scornful sister. They were taking the picture
bit by bit, color by color, face by face. There
are advantages in this analytical study, yet there
is a chance of losing the spirit of the whole.
So Mae thought and said: “I know that sister
now, Edith, better than you ever will.”
This was while she was looping up her friend’s
dress here, and pulling out a fold there, in that
destructive way girls have of beautifying each other.
“See here!”

And down sank Miss Mae on her knees, with her lips
curved, and her hands stretched out imploringly, half-mockingly.
No need of words to say: “Save my brother,
behold him. Ah, you cannot do it, your power is
boast. Yet, save him, pray.”

“A little more yellow in my hair, some pearls
and a pink gown, and you might have the sister to
study in a living model, Edith,” laughed Mae,
arising.

Edith and Albert were both struck by Mae’s dramatic
force, and they talked of her as they drove to the
Vatican. “I wish I understood her better,”
said Edith. “I cannot feel as if travel
were doing her good. She is changing so; she
was always odd, but then she was always happy.
Now she has her moods, and there is a look in her eye
I am afraid of. It is almost savage. You
would think the beauty in Rome would delight her nature,
for she craves beauty and poetry in everything.
I don’t believe the theatre is good for her.
Albert, suppose we give up our tickets for Thursday
night.”

“But you want particularly to see that play,
Edith.”

“I can easily give it up for Mae’s sake.
It would be cruel to go without her, and I think excitement
is bad for her.”

“You are very generous, Edith, and right, too,
I dare say. I wish my little sister could see
pleasure and duty through your steadier, clearer eyes.”

Then the steady, clear eyes dropped suddenly, and
the two forgot all about Mae, and rolled contentedly
off, behind the limping Italian horse. And the
red-cheeked vetturino with the flower in his button-hole,
whistled a love-song, and thought of his Piametta,
I suppose.

Meantime, Mae, left to herself, grew penitent and
reckless by turns, blushed alternately with shame
and with quick pulse-beats, as she remembered Norman
Mann’s face, or the officer’s smile.
She wondered where he lived, and whether she would
see him soon again. Poor child! She was
really innocent, and only dimly surmised how he would
haunt her hereafter. Would he look well in citizen’s
clothes? How would Norman Mann seem in his uniform?
She wished she had a jacket cut like his. And
so on in an indolent way. But penitence was getting
the better of her, and after vainly trying to read
or write, she settled herself down for a cry.
To think that she, Mae Madden, could have acted so
absurdly. She never would forgive herself, never.
Then she cried some more, a good deal more.